


Don't you mind

by smoth



Category: Hat Films - Fandom, The Yogscast
Genre: Comfort Food, Domestic Fluff, Eating Disorders, Recovery, Troffy - Freeform, Yoga, figure skating AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-26
Updated: 2017-01-26
Packaged: 2018-09-20 01:57:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,611
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9470366
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/smoth/pseuds/smoth
Summary: “Smith, like five people started following me and the pizza. I had to fend them off with my feet while balancing the pizza on my head. You’re welcome.” Trott kicks the door behind him closed, and put the pizzas and fixings on the coffee table."Thanks, Trott. Love you." Smith smiles. Trott pokes his tongue unto his cheek, smiling smugly. Smith splutters a laugh and shuffles into a sitting position, then reaches over to flip the lid of the pizza box open with a flourish. “You’re gonna have to try that cake, because you don’t know what you’re missing.”





	

The rink was local to where Trott and Smith lived as children, and even as adults, and it had been there longer than they had been alive, by far. Sips had told them that it used to be a bowling alley, but it turned out that the town weren’t too enthusiastic about it, so they made it into a rink. There were hockey clubs and skating groups that could use it, and even though the town was a small one, it had some talent - the ice hockey team had won a few competitions here and there. 

 

Smith was thirteen when his mum had pushed him to do something at the rink in town. Smith was picky about hobbies; he was tall enough for basketball, but didn’t like the sport, swimming pools were a few miles or so away and he’d have to catch a train just to enjoy a hobby. The rink was ten minutes away on the bus, and half an hour away on foot. His mother thought it to be perfect. 

 

Sips was his coach from day one. A guy who wore hawaiian shirts in all weathers, and ridiculous baseball caps. He had been a skater all of his life, and was convinced he could make a good skater out of a scrawny boy with bruises on every second square inch of his legs. He already had one other student - of sorts - a boy with braces and glasses that was a year older than Smith. He was better at skating by far. Graceful. 

 

Sips would always compare them - how good this other kid was at the toe loops - come on, Smith, even  _ he _ can do it. The other boy had joined by choice, of course, and apparently had something special. His name was Chris Trott, and he was probably really good at his school studies, and Smith was just always downright annoyed when their ice sessions crossed over each other. He’d be stumbling and trying to ignore Sips’ instruction while the teacher’s pet would be on the other end of the rink spinning into jumps like they were nothing at all. 

 

Sips had pushed them together when it clicked that Trott knew how to do things that Smith couldn’t, and Smith could teach Trott some things too. It seemed only proper to Sips. He’d be in the locker room with a coffee and chatting on the phone to an old friend while Trott and Smith had their first conversation. 

 

“Sips said you know how to jump.” Smith tries not to growl the sentence, but his voice comes across very gravelly. Trott nods, his ankles together as he stands up straight. Smith is a head or so taller than him. 

 

“And that you know how to go pretty fast without tripping up.” Trott replies. His voice cracks slightly, and Smith tries not to laugh at it. “Trade, I guess?” 

 

“I guess.” 

 

From then, they didn’t work alone, and rather opted to work together rather than as separate skaters. Sips would spend his nights learning pairs’ routines and then offering to teach them instead of single performances, teaching them that same-sex figure skating wasn’t as common as they’d think, explaining dynamics. How skating was like dancing, and acting, and that it was an art. 

 

Trott was quick to sign them up for local competitions, of which they’d mostly win, after Sips explaining scoring to them and perfecting routines. As soon as they hit college, they had thought about getting a dorm together, for ease of practise, and because they didn’t really know anyone else well enough to share a room with for three years. They had shared the showers together at the rink, and that had to mean something about friendship, in their opinions. 

 

They had started dating halfway through college, and it had impacted strangely on their performances. They would practise separately, especially for big competitions with professional judges. Their routines wouldn’t be as crisp if they weren’t split up for the build up, Sips would say. And they didn’t argue about it- his plan was a good one. They always saw each other afterwards, though, and they could be as close together as they wanted then. 

 

Trott had found a dance tutor for them, and he tended to go alone to the sessions. When the three of them were together they get distracted easily, and end up not getting anything done at all. The tutor was called Ross, and he was a traveller who had a hatred for yoga pants and a love for good cooking. As a friend, he was very kind, supportive of Smith and Trott alike, and as a teacher, he helped them with stretches and such for routines, to learn moves that were more dance-esque than anything. 

 

After many years of working for it, they were in the middle of a long break from competitions and finals. Just home from Canada, they were slowly settling back into living together in their tiny house. 

 

* * *

 

Smith darted around the ice, smoothly and quickly as ever, hands waving rhythmically by his sides and gliding around the rink like he was made for it. From the side of the rink, behind the plastic panelling, Sips - with his old bowling club’s branded bomber jacket over a polo shirt, half-full orange juice box in hand - reflected briefly on how ridiculous it was that he had worked and trained for ten years for this, and that the boy before him hadn't actually been born in a pair of skates. The taller man was hardly anything but a blur as he zipped around the rink, then turned to cross the center of the rink, landing an effortless toe-loop on his left foot, then picking up his speed again, back around the edge of the ice. 

 

The older man outside of the ice rink chewed on the straw of his juice box idly, and turned his head to the sound of the door opening behind the locker rooms. 

 

"Smith? Sips?" Trott's voice echoed, as he shut the door behind him. The rain was hitting heavily that night, and he had really regretted not using his umbrella earlier. 

 

Trott tugs the scarf away from his mouth and wiped sweat from his top lip. He had been to his family's house that day, gathering thanks and congratulations from his last performance with Smith. Trott's younger cousins asked about the dress, who he was skating with. The brunet's family weren't the most accepting group, and he and Smith had agreed that their relationship was very hush-hush. It didn't help that the media was picking up on them recently. Trott dreaded the thought of his family finding out after the news did. 

 

The thinner skater wandered into the rink and stood beside Sips, whose dark eyes acutely followed Smith's every move. The auburn haired man was leaping into toe loops and pushing against his speed again, darting from one end of the rink to the opposite as fluidly as ever. 

 

"Just how long has he been here?" Trott asked, taking off his gloves and watching as Sips leaned back to check his watch. It glinted in the light, and was probably stupidly pricey. Whenever they went to new countries, and they had a day off, Sips would always go looking at watches. The types that had diamond crusted hands and probably cost more than a small car. 

 

"From 2, so about half the day. He keeps breaking his records every second try," The Canadian takes a sip of his orange juice again, and crumples up the box in his hand. "He's been doing this routine for three hours now." 

 

Trott whistles lowly, his cheeks flushed from the sudden heat change from outside to inside. 

 

The blade of Smith’s skate sends projectile shavings of ice flying as he swings his leg out, staring up at the ceiling as he slows down into a spin. His long arms stretch upwards, and he lets his head fall back slowly to the music. 

 

"Has he got headphones in?" Trott turns his head to Sips, yet still continues to watch Smith's spin. Sips nods. 

 

"You might have to go out and get him, Trott." The older man yawns. "Can you do me a favour and lock up? I'm gonna hit the hay." 

 

Trott nods, and walks into the locker room, reaching for his keys in his pocket. Sips strolled past him, and patted Trott's shoulder as he walks past. Trott smiles over his shoulder, says goodnight to his teacher. He opens up his locker and grabs his skates. 

 

Smith is on his second spin, one hand splayed out on his navel and the other on the back of his head, tugging at his hair. He breathes heavily, his eyes closed delicately. 

 

Trott pushes out onto the ice and gains his balance immediately, skating towards Smith. He stands about a metre away and waits until Smith slows in his movements, letting his hands fall to their sides. Smith’s eyes open and he smiles widely at Trott, and halts himself, stabbing into the ice with the toe of his boot. 

 

“Fancy seeing you here.” He says lazily, taking the earphones out of his ears, and stands casually, like they’re meeting on a street corner. It’s enough to make Trott grin. 

 

“Sips said that you’ve been here all day?” 

 

“Practise makes perfect, Trott.” Smith takes the shorter man’s hands, and skates backwards. Trott pushes forward slightly on his right foot, knowing Smith liked to drag him more than wait for assistance. 

 

“Doesn’t mean you have to freeze up and skate all day, though.” Trott is pulled to Smith’s side, suddenly, and they loop around one another, holding each other’s wrists for stability as they drift. 

 

“Just means I’ll be stealing the sheets for warmth tonight, so I can feel my legs in the morning.” He laughs, and they slow down to a stop. Trott pushed towards the taller and crooks his neck to meet his eyes. “Should we head home?” 

 

“Well, it is 8 o’clock, Smith.” Trott pushes away from Smith for the sake of skating around the taller man, hands by his sides. 

 

They leave the rink, Smith stomping ice shards from the blades of his skates on the ground. Trott quickly walks to the locker room and sits on the bench, happy that he hadn’t taken off any clothes before heading into the rink. Smith punched at his locker and it swung open, the sound of metal clashing as the door hit another locker. He reaches down to untie his skates and drops a few inches as he steps out of them. 

 

“People must think we’re much taller than we actually are. These things must make me about 6 foot.” Trott says, quietly, pairing his skates and sliding the blade guards on. 

 

“Maybe we should get me shorter ones to boost your height confidence.” Smith scoffs, pulling his hoodie over his head. His hair bounces as his head crowns from the collar of the jumper. Trott laughs loudly. 

 

* * *

 

The auburn haired man eyes Trott as he kicked off his shoes when they get home, reaching out to tug Trott towards him by the end of his scarf, and bringing him inside before clicking the lock of their flat shut. Trott leaned against the wall, taking off his coat, and idly watched Smith's motions. Smith pushed his shoes up against the wall beneath their coat hooks, and Trott slipped off his boots to place them beside Smith's worn out basketball shoes. 

 

"Trott, what’s for dinner?" 

 

"It's Saturday, so probably some kind of junk." Trott ducks under where his scarf as he lifts it off of his shoulders. It was a favourite of his; thick orange cords in a large plait. He hung it up with as much care as possible. 

 

"Pizza? Please," Smith watches Trott shrug out of his cardigan. Trott looks suddenly bare in his hippie drawstring shirt and jeans, striped socks. "I think there's create-your-own."

 

"Sounds good to me." Trott smiles, then steps into Smith's space, his feet in between the taller man's. Trott's hands reached into Smith's back pocket out of habit, and the shorter man stepped up on his toes, and smiling as Smith dips his head down to kiss him. 

 

Smith always had been a fast kisser, so a moment like this, with his hands slowly feeling through Trott's hair and Smith's inner elbow settling against Trott's nape.  

 

They pulled apart and opened their eyes slowly, looking half-awake and staring at each other. Smith laughed gently. 

 

"Living room?" 

 

They soon both found themselves on the sofa; legs and arms wrapped around one another and heated kisses being passed along one another’s cheeks and lips.  

 

“Where did you put the menu?" Smith says after a moment where they aren't making each other giggle like teenagers sneaking out of class to snog. Trott rolled his eyes, pulling himself up from where he was laying on Smith to peck him on the nose before standing up and wandering away to find the menu. 

 

“Don't know about you, but I’m more than ready to stuff myself," Smith announces, unfolding the menu out on the coffee table. "You wanna order now?” 

 

“Yeah, yeah." Trott goes along the list he had on his phone. Chicken, tandoori chicken, Cumberland sausage, sweetcorn and peppers?” 

 

Smith kissed his fingers then outstretched his hand, over emphasizing a 'mwa' sound. "Perfection.” 

 

"Could we just get two of those? I usually just end up stealing yours." Trott asked.  “What kind of crust do you want?”

 

“Deep-dish. Pure goodness.” Smith continued raving about pizza and types of cheese until Trott had called them up and had gotten off the phone.

 

“They said it'll be 20 minutes or so, and I ordered you those chocolate pudding things, too. They had a deal on." Trott drops his phone into his pocket. Smith smiles widely. 

 

“Don't give me that look! Those things are beautiful.” 

 

"More beautiful than you on the ice?" Trott smiles, his lips pressed together in a thin pink line. Smith bites his own lip. 

 

"Aren't I beautiful off of the ice?" He pokes at Trott's side. 

 

"Nah mate, wouldn't touch you with a ten metre pole." 

 

Smith mocks a hurt look, a hand on his chest. 

 

After another ten minutes of teasing, Smith pushed Trott off of his stomach. Trott had just got a text saying that the pizza had arrived, anyway. 

 

“Smith, like five people started following me and the pizza. I had to fend them off with my feet while balancing the pizza on my head. You’re welcome.” Trott kicks the door behind him closed, and put the pizzas and fixings on the coffee table.

 

"Thanks, Trott. Love you." Smith smiles. Trott pokes his tongue unto his cheek, smiling smugly. Smith splutters a laugh and shuffles into a sitting position, then reaches over to flip the lid of the pizza box open with a flourish. “You’re gonna have to try that lava cake because you don’t know what you’re missing.”

 

-

 

“I can’t.” Trott forced out, one hand on his stomach as he lay beside Smith on their sofa, Trott's half empty pizza box abandoned on the floor. “No more.” 

 

“Come on, Trott, just a little bit more.” Smith poked at Trott’s side. “You’ve barely had four slices, and I had to finish off your crusts.”

 

Trott let out a whine and attempted to push himself into a sitting position once more to finish off his last slice of pizza. There was only two more bites, if that. But Trott was entirely too full - even just looking at it made him feel even fuller. “Just let me rest a minute.” 

 

“Was lunch too much? I know your family feeds you.” Smith asks, biting at a crust. 

 

“Yeah, they did. I thought I’d be hungry again by now. They’re nothing compared to your family.”

 

Smith laughed. “I can’t fucking wait for Christmas. You’re gonna be more stuffed than the turkey!” He smiles at Trott, knocking his head against the shorter man’s shoulder. “The Smiths are an eating family.” 

 

“Don’t I know it.” Trott groans. “Best get prepared for the holidays, then, huh?” He rolls to sit back up properly on the edge of the sofa cushion, picking up his discarded slice again. Smith tugs him backwards so Trott’s  lays against the taller man’s thighs. 

 

Trott manages two more slices, then makes a deep noise in the back of his throat. “I’m wasted. Food wasted.” He closes his eyes as Smith grabs at Trott’s last crust. 

 

“That’s a good feeling.” Smith pats Trott’s chest happily. 

 

“No, it’s not. It hurts.” Trott groaned. “But yeah, it feels good. I think.” 

 

“You’re such a mess, mate,” Smith looks down at the sauce around Trott’s mouth. “You look like a sad Joker.” 

 

“I think I’m in a food coma. Or I might be dead.” He groaned again, as Smith wipes at the sauce on his cheek delicately. “Smith, I think I’m dead. 

 

“You’re not dead, Trott.” Smith said, satisfied with his cleaning. “Do you need me to rub your belly, you big cat?” 

 

“Fuck off…” Trott mewled, but Smith continued anyway. “Fuck! Smith, your hands are fucking freezing!” He complained, Smith’s chilly palms rubbing circles on his stomach. “Not helping!” 

 

“Just give them a minute to heat up, I promise it’ll work wonders.” 

 

Trott settled into the couch, letting Smith massage him gently. 

 

* * *

 

"Pizza isn't a sin, Trott, calm down." Ross is perched on the end of the wooden bench that Trott does jumps on; jumping off of one foot and letting the other dangle off of the bench, then alternating through jumps. It trembles the seat for Ross, but him sat there stabilises it, so he won't complain. 

 

"It just felt weird, I guess?" Trott's voice cracks as he says it, his throat far too dry, "Maybe it was because we're eating together again. Competitions take up loads of our time and split us up." 

 

"And you've been split for about a month now, so I suppose you're right." Ross says, opening Trott's water bottle and holding it out to him. Trott crouches into a squat and takes a long drink. A slice of lemon and two slices of cucumber float in the water, dancing around from the movement. 

 

"How was Thailand?" Trott hands the bottle back, and stands up, ready to start his reps again. Ross sits up straighter after placing the water down by his feet. 

 

"It was gorgeous, Trott. I took so many photos. Kim had fun too, showing me everything that any tourist would want, since that's literally all I was over there. I tried all of the food that I could." Ross pats his stomach happily. "I brought you something, actually, I'll bring it to you at some point." 

 

"You shouldn't have, mate." Trott smiles, counts to five, then jumps again. Ross was a traveller; he could never stay in his hometown for more than three months without getting bored. He'd always come back though, with new gifts and photos, bug bites and long stories to tell. 

 

Ross smiles widely, and waves his hand around. 

 

"I wanted to ask you that, actually. After your next competition, would you and Smith want to go off somewhere with me? Maybe Kim if you'd want her there too. It would be nice for you to go to another country without needing to train." Ross has hope in his voice, and Trott slows his jumps to think about it. 

 

_ Would Sips let them?  _

 

"I'll have to ask about it, Ross, but it sounds good. Where do you think we should go?" He jumps again, counts to five, jumps again. 

 

Ross' foot bounces and he chatters about how much he wanted to show Trott the night markets in Japan, and try all of the food. 

 

\- 

 

"Smith, Ross asked if we could go to Japan with him, after our next competition!"  Trott calls Smith when he's halfway across the bridge on the way home. He slows down from running to hold the tiny microphone on his headphones closer to his mouth. 

 

Smith audibly squeaks on the other end, and it makes Trott jump a little, happily. He bites down on his lip, smiling and staring out at the afternoon sky. He leans one hand on the railing of the bridge, and watched some seagulls passing overhead. 

 

"Oh my God- We have to! We need to, I want to- Do you want to?" Smith is a flurry of excited questions, and Trott doesn't even care if people are looking at him as he laughs loudly. 

 

"Of course I do- I'm just worried about if Sips would let us take a break, y'know?" 

 

"Yeah. We can convince him though, we've worked our asses off for this year, we can have a bit of a break." 

 

"Couldn't have said it better myself, Smith." Trott shoves his hand into his pocket to heat it up. He was regretting not changing out of his workout clothes from the studio to run home in the cold. 

 

"Are you nearly home? I'm just getting lunch out for us." Smith asks, and Trott can hear the fridge opening.

 

"Yeah, just two more blocks then I'll be there." 

 

"Are you running again? Trott, you need to let your muscles rest-" 

 

"Shush, I'll be fine. I'll see you in a bit." 

 

"Okay, Trott, love you." 

 

"Love you." Trott slips his phone back into his pocket, smiling fondly. His music resumes playing and he picks up where he left off, running towards the blocks of flats around the corner.

 

* * *

“I think it would be nice.” Smith takes off his shirt, stood on the outside of the bed, toeing off his socks. His watch chirps away at the 10pm mark.

 

“What would?” Trott looks up from his kindle to regard Smith in the light from the bedside lamp, glowing from the little table on his side. Smith’s hair is wild and he’s covered in stubble. His stomach hangs slightly over the waistband of his boxers as he climbs into bed, under the duvet that Trott is laid on top of. 

 

“Japan, with Ross. There’s so much to see, and the food must be amazing. You like sushi.” He says, curling up against Trott’s side to peer at what he’s reading. Trott rests a hand on Smith’s head, fingers combing through the curly locks. 

 

The brunet clicks it off, then sets it aside, shrugging out of his shirt. “I’m just worried about what Sips would say about it.” 

 

Smith watches him fold up his t-shirt and drop it onto the floor, then lifts up the duvet so he can slip inside. Smith crowds up to Trott’s chest, kissing his neck gently before hooking his chin over the shorter man’s shoulder. 

 

“I’ll ask him next time I see him, yeah?” 

 

“Thanks, Smith.” 

 

The auburn haired man presses a kiss to Trott’s cheek, smiling quietly, and Trott reaches to click off the lamp. 

 

* * *

 

"What on earth are you doing?" Trott tugs on one of Smith's old jumpers over his head to mask himself with his thin pajamas from the morning chill. The skates on the back of the door clank together as he opens it at a questionable smell. 

 

Smith is cutting a yellow  _ thing _ , along with something that looks suspiciously like a doily, or a really undercooked pancake into inch-wide strips. He turns at the sound of Trott's question and smiles at the sight of him, wearing Smith's university jersey backwards and inside out, and he's rubbing at his eyes with one hand and still holding the door open with the other. The auburn haired man turns back to cutting the fried egg yolk and whites, separating them into two piles with the side of his knife.

 

"Morning, sleeping beauty. Just making our lunch, if that's alright. Fiona gave me the recipe.” Smith points to his phone, propped up against the sugar jar, with his nose. “Doubles up as me making sure that you actually have lunch." 

 

Trott exhales loudly. 

 

They were only home for a few more days before Sips would be sending them into separate rooms and to train - but for now they had their own training methods to cope with. For Trott, that meant sessions with Ross and runs every evening, where the sun would be setting and painting the sky pink and orange, maybe even bringing Smith along. Smith liked to relax, make sure they were both cleansed, lax, and fed. The taller goes back to laying out the strips of white and yellow in a close-knit lattice, weaving the strips together like a basket. There's a pot with a lid on that's simmering on the oven top, bubbling away quietly, and Trott can’t help but think that Smith must be freezing. It must be in the negative degrees in the kitchen, and if Trott had remembered his contacts or glasses, he'd probably see his breath in front of him. Smith was still in his boxers and a band t-shirt. 

 

"I wouldn't skip lunch, Smith." Trott goes to the fridge and grabs at his orange juice, then nudges the door closed with his foot as he stretches up to the cupboard for a cup. He slips his thumb into the handle of a mug and brings it to himself swiftly, breathing in his partner's warm breath. They stand next to each other, Smith finishing off his egg-lattice and Trott pouring the bright fruit juice into his cup. Sips had bought it from a competition in France, and it was one of those cheap souvenirs with all of the landmarks printed on a stock-photo landscape. Sips insisted they take it home as a reminder, just in case they didn't take a medal home - they did, it hangs up with the rest on their living room wall. 

 

"Well, you definitely won't miss this one. You'll love it, it’s different." Smith places the lattice onto a sheet of plastic film and takes the pot off of the oven. “One of their newer ideas for the cafe. They’re doing really well with it all.”

 

Trott rests his lower back against the worktop and sips at his juice, clicking his tongue at the sweetness, how cold it is as it runs down his throat. 

 

"Do you fancy going running later on? The snow won't hit until tomorrow, so it shouldn’t be too cold." Trott says as he holds the mug to his chest, cradling it with both hands. 

 

Smith tips a bag of rice out of the pot and drains the water with a strainer over the sink. He hums to himself, and Trott nearly hums back. But that would only start a match of feisty non-verbal communication, and it was far too early for that.  

 

"Where would we be going? Along the cycle track?" He places the bag of steaming rice into a bowl of cold water that was sitting beside the sink, cursing at the heat as he pinches its corners, and Trott makes a grunting noise, bringing his juice back up to rest against his chin. 

 

"Fuck that, we nearly got hit by a BMX last time." Trott reminisces unhappily, and Smith snorts at the thought. "I was thinking around the hill, out by the park." 

 

Smith reaches into the utensil drawer for a pair of scissors, humming deep in the back of his throat. “As long as it’s not too cold. My ass might freeze over or something.”

 

Trott snorts a laugh, and watches Smith cut the bag of rice open and drop the contents of the pillow-shaped package onto a waiting plate. He melts back into his own little world as he prepares the meal - whatever it may be - and Trott almost doesn’t recognise his housemate; his friend, lover, with the speed of his movements. He’s so  _ slow _ , as he is, and on the ice he was renowned for his incredibly fast skating; his ‘lightning’ footwork. Smith lazily tosses the crumpled up, still steaming, bag from the rice into the bin in the corner. It nearly pains Trott.  

 

“Slow down there, mate.” The shorter man snarls from the counter, and considers slipping up onto the worktop to cross his legs and lean against the window, just existing and watching him cook, but decides against it. “Don’t want to break any speed records in the kitchen, do we?”

 

“Trott, there’s no rush. It’s very early.” He smiles, spooning up some rice and placing it atop the egg, arranging it into a little ball in the centre. “And the last time I checked, speed is for sport, not cooking.”

 

Trott dumps his empty cup into the sink and places his cheek against Smith’s shoulder warmly. 

 

“I’m gonna have a shower before going to Ross’ studio. You want me to wait until you’re finished so you can join in, sunshine?” 

 

Trott’s jaw rubs against Smith’s arm as he asks it, and it makes Smith feel warm, suddenly, in the cold of the kitchen. 

 

“Please, yeah.” 

 

 

-

 

“Why don’t we ever use the bath?” Smith tugs his shirt upwards, while Trott turns on the shower. The shorter man laughs a little. 

 

“Because you can barely fit in it without bending your legs, and we’ll spill water everywhere,” he scoffed, nodding as Smith quirked an eyebrow as his fingers tugged at the hem of Trott’s sweater. “Go ahead.”

 

“Maybe we just need a bigger bath.” Smith licked his lips as he folded Trott’s jumper in his arms, holding it to his chest for a moment. He could count Trott’s ribs from here, he realises, and is suddenly almost scared to hug him. Trott notices the look that Smith’s giving him and smiles wearily. 

 

“I’ve put on some pounds, you know that.” 

 

“I know. I’m glad, but it’s still-”

 

“It’s an improvement. You say so every night, Smith. It’s been hard enough getting this far.” Trott takes the jumper from Smith’s clammy fingers and drops it onto the floor, by their feet. Trott steps closer to Smith, and smiles up at him. Smith lets their chests touch, and leans down to kiss Trott’s cheek. 

 

They step into the shower, with Smith behind Trott, so they share the spray. Trott reaches for the shower gel and laughs at its name. 

 

The bathroom mirror slowly fogs up, Smith’s clothes are strewn over the floor and Trott’s jumper and boxers are folded neatly by the door. The scales are hidden behind the toilet.

 

* * *

 

Ross and Trott stand in front of the window on one end of the studio, saluting the sun, and Trott is watching his friend closely, from where he is just behind him at an angle where he can see all of the postures, but not the man's face - so he can't see how he is feeling. The light washes beautifully against Ross, and he is merely an illuminated silhouette against the floor to ceiling window, the muscles on his back and shoulders rippling under the skin as he raises his arms towards the ceiling. He’s only wearing a baggy pair of Thai fisherman pants that Trott had bought him (after far too many hours spent listening to the man complain about the stigma around yoga pants) and the span of his back, its curves, the dip of his waist and the protuberance of a truly oblique dancer, of which he is. 

 

Trott watches the taller man’s forearms bulge when he leans into upward-facing dog, and the black haired man pauses there, breathing deeply, chin lifted to catch the sun on his face. Although he still can’t see Ross' face, Trott knows that his eyelids are closed, and his profile is smooth and relaxed. The skater tries to keep up the pace silently, as he pushes off to raise his hips into downward-facing dog, his back and his legs making the shape of a slightly long triangle.

 

"Your breathing is staggered," Ross' voice is quiet, but loud enough to sound like a threat to Trott. "Is something wrong?" 

 

Trott moves to lay down, then sits up to cross his legs and stare out of the huge window before them both. "I'm trying to eat again. For me, and Smith. But it seems like there’s just way more food now. My parents stuffed me, then Smith wanted pizza the same night. Now he’s at home making us lunch." He says it slowly, and Ross drops into a sitting position, half turned to him. 

 

"That's really good, Trott, it is." Ross' hands rest on his kneecaps, his feet pressed together. 

 

Trott's eyes close, and he almost falls backwards. "I guess so. I just don’t see why there’s such a big deal about it.” 

 

“It’s health, Chris. You’ve got a record of forgetting meals.” Ross frowns, trying to even out the cold glare Trott shoots at him upon saying so. 

 

“I think I’ll be fine by missing  _ one _ meal. Smith makes such a fuss-”

 

“Because he cares,” Ross frowns pitifully, his brow heavy against his eyes. Ross’ hands settle back on his thighs, smoothing out the fabric on his legs. “- and skipping one meal is fine, yeah, sure,” the taller says slowly, “but you skip at least two a day. It’s not really doing wonders to your physique, or your mood.” 

 

Trott looks back down at his chest and pokes at his ribs through his shirt. He looks up at the brunet through his thick fringe as his hand drops back into his lap. 

 

“We don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to.” The taller stands up gracefully, then lands flat on his feet. 

 

“It’s fine. I’m used to it, by now.” 

 

“Shouldn’t that get it through, then?” Ross asks. 

 

Trott nods, facing the floor. 

  
  
  



End file.
